


You Should Bottle That Shit

by greenglowsgold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, and terrible nutritionists, angels make good doctors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:23:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2364206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenglowsgold/pseuds/greenglowsgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The argument over Dean’s eating habits was an old one; they just weren’t used to Castiel weighing in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Should Bottle That Shit

**Author's Note:**

> [Stephanielikes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Stephanielikes/pseuds/Stephanielikes) asked to read this and then sneaked her way into insisting I post it. I see your game, Steph.
> 
> Takes place early-to-mid S5.

“You’re going to send yourself to an early grave with those things, you know.”

No. Oh hell no, Dean was not going to be lectured to about his eating habits by a man with a freaking _salad_. Sam couldn’t even bear to use real dressing, opting instead for some watery crap that vanished as soon as it was spread across the lettuce.

Pointedly catching Sam’s eye, Dean jammed an overlarge bite of cheeseburger into his mouth and relished at the disgusted face Sam pulled before turning back to his own pitiful plate. Good, hopefully that would be the end of it. Cas certainly seemed to think so, as he hadn’t even spared them a glance from his place by the window. He was staring intently out at the street, like God could step around the corner at any moment and he had to be ready. Or maybe he was just people-watching; Dean really had no idea what went on in the guy’s brain.

Sam, on the other hand, he knew all too well, and he had to swallow back a sigh when his brother looked up with a determined expression that told Dean he wasn’t quite done being scolded.

“Dean—”

“I don’t think there is such a thing as an ‘early grave’ for me anyway.” Dean swirled a fry in a puddle of ketchup as he talked (okay, stalled). “I’m already living on stolen time, so any grave after the first one, I’d definitely call late. Right, Cas?” he added, popping the soaked fry into his mouth.

Cas blinked at his sudden inclusion in the conversation, finally turning away from the window. “Most things happen at the time they’re meant to.” At this, Dean had to wonder whether Cas had actually been paying attention or just bullshitted something vague, but either way, it seemed to support his point.

Still, Sam was not deterred. “Dean, I’m serious.” He leaned forward a little, forcing Dean to tighten his grip on his burger in case Sam got any wild ideas about pulling it out of his hands.

“And _I’m_ serious when I tell you to leave it alone and let me finish my lunch.” Sure, Dean was aware it wasn’t the healthiest option on the menu, but it tasted great and it was a full meal. Between Sam’s pile of wilted plants and Cas’s lonely cup of coffee — for appearance’s sake only, since he still refused to drink that or anything else — Dean felt like he was eating for the whole table.

“You’re walking right into a heart attack.” Sam jabbed his fork at Dean’s plate. He was falling quickly into his ‘I went to college so I know things you don’t and you should just accept them’ voice, which had never once gone over well.

The burger was left on the plate as Dean set his elbows on the table, ready to make a point. “Oh yeah? Y’know, this is classic road food; most of the guys we know eat like this all the time. They don’t have the greatest life expectancy, but when was the last time you saw a hunter drop dead from a freaking heart attack?”

“Well, you did.”

Dean scowled. “Dude, I had 100,000 volts running through my system. That’s kind of an extreme situation.” And one that left no lasting damage, so it made no sense to bring it up now. “I never said I was invincible, Sam. We’re in the middle of the _Apocalypse_.”

“So basically you’re saying that you’re not going to worry about heart disease because you think you’re going to get yourself killed on the job before your arteries clog.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“ _Dean_ —”

“You don’t need to worry about your brother’s health like this, Sam,” Cas said suddenly, making Dean blink at the unexpected support (he’d thought Cas had lost interest and gone back to his window long ago). ‘See?’ Dean started to say, but Cas wasn’t done. “Dean has very clean arteries for a man of his age.”

Huh?

“Besides,” Cas continued, “Dean’s right. He’s far more likely to be killed by a demon or spirit than by natural causes.”

Now that was more familiar. The lack of tact, Dean had gotten used to after months of dealing with angels who’d never had much reason to develop social skills, but a little more disturbing was…

“How do you know what his blood vessels look like?”

Thank you, Sam, for dropping the argument in favor of the obviously more important issue of Cas peering inside their bodies.

“How much can you tell about our health? I mean, can you actually _see_ the veins, or…?”

Never mind, Dean was withdrawing his thanks. Obviously, Sam was more concerned about treating this as a science project than about the invasion of Dean’s privacy. Meanwhile, Dean was getting more than a little tired of angels treating his body as anything from a tool to a specimen to a new suit, so long as he had no say in the matter.

“Not directly, no,” Cas said, and Dean relaxed a fraction, lowering the hand he’d only just realized had come up to cover his chest. “But I did put him back together after I raised him from Hell. I have a more intimate knowledge of his body than most.”

Even Sam, caught up in geek mode as he was, couldn’t hold back a snicker at that. Really, Dean thought he didn’t even try, and it earned him a kick under the table before he turned back to the source of the problem.

“Hey, Cas. Cool is with the ‘intimate knowledge’ stuff, okay?”

Cas paused just long enough (probably trying to decide whether it would be worth it to ask ‘why’) for Sam, laughter now under control, to swoop in with another question.

“So wait, if you fixed him up, couldn’t you tell his arteries were full of crap? I mean, it’s gotta be noticeable. I’ve been watching him eat for most of my life and I’m pretty sure they only time he’s ever eaten something green was when Zachariah stuck us in Corporate Wonderland.”

Just the mention of those days of cleanses and vegetation made Dean shudder, and he took another bite of his burger to mollify his churning stomach. “Oh, shut up. You’re just whining ‘cause you’re hungry.” Dean had seen it a thousand times when Sam was younger; it looked about the same, now.

“And you’re just grouchy because you’re malnourished,” Sam replied, punctuating his retort with the _crunch_ of a large forkful of salad.

Abandoning his burger once again — he couldn’t properly enjoy the meal while he was defending his very way of life — Dean turned to their impartial third party for support. “Cas, tell Sammy how awesome my heart looked when you saw it, alright?” God, his life was weird.

Cas just stared at him. Which, well, wasn’t exactly unusual, but Dean would have appreciated a little expression. Something to work on, he supposed, and had almost gotten entirely distracted by the time Cas spoke. “It was damaged, Dean. All of you was damaged.”

Dean shrugged. “Well, yeah, ‘cause of the dogs and the months in the dirt and whatever. But the blood vessels—”

“It doesn’t matter what state your body was in at the time. I fixed it.”

“’Preciate it, yeah. Chicks love scars—” here, he ignored Sam’s dangerously dramatic eye roll from across the table “—but I think the giant claw marks down my chest wouldn’t been a little much. Still, Cas, the inside part….”

But Cas was frowning, head tilted slightly to the side. “You misunderstand me. Much of the harm had been incurred before the hellhounds’ attack. I healed more than just your immediate injuries.”

The thing about having a brother like Sam was that it didn’t really matter how quickly Dean could make his brain work; he was always the second to get it.

“Oh, shit,” Sam said, staring at Cas. “Dean, all your scars were gone.”

Well, yeah, Dean knew that. It would’ve been kind of hard to miss how his skin was suddenly and perfectly clear, a clean slate. He’d been kind of annoyed about it, actually; it’d been a bitch building the calluses on his hands back up to something familiar. On the other hand, he’d dropped the nerve damage that’d been making it hard to bend the last two fingers on his left hand since a run-in with a werewolf when he was 19, and the awkward nub of bone in his foot from a break that had never healed quite right had smoothed back down to normal, and…

Oh. Okay, he got it now. And he did not need the kick to the shin from Sam, thank you, who aimed well considering he still hadn’t taken his wide eyes off Cas.

“Cas, did you…” He faltered for a moment when Cas’s eyes locked on his, then rushed on. “What, you just took a deep clean to my insides and scrubbed the whole thing out?”

“I healed the damage,” Cas said again, all matter-of-fact and ‘why do you insist on using such odd phrases when it could be said so simply.’

“But,” Sam started, sounding a bit like he was choking before he got it under control a second later. “Why did that have to include his _arteries_?”

“He was needed in good condition.” Cas’ voice was flat, reminding Dean as it often did of their first meeting and being told he had a _mission_. But no, there were no missions allowed in this little diner, even though Cas turning to Dean rarely meant anything but. “Slowed blood flow to the heart could impair your abilities. I also reversed significant effects to your liver and the muscles in your right leg.”

Oh, yeah. Dean remembered that hunt. “You fixed _everything_?”

“Not everything. Some of the oxidative damage was crucial to the aging process and…” He broke off at Sam’s cough. “My point is, you don’t need to be concerned, Sam.”

“Yeah, Sam.” Dean grinned, because more than the weird invasion of his very personal space, more than the most effective heart health treatment mankind would never know (unless angels decided to go to medical school), this meant: “It’s only been a year since then. You’ve probably got more crap stuck in your heart than I do.”

“That’s…” Sam glanced between their plates, and his face twisted. “So not fair.”

Winking, Dean returned to his meal. “Karma.”

Sam groaned, even as Dean dug into his burger with renewed vigor. “That’s not karma. That’s the exact opposite of karma.”

“Excuse me.” Dean flagged down the waitress as she walked past. “Can I get another order of fries?” Damn, it was worth it just for the bitchface Sam threw him alone. “What? Half of ‘em are for Cas, anyway. If he’s going to try human food, I’m gonna start him off with the best.”

Cas leveled a stern look at him that said, more clearly than any words could, ‘No you will not.’

“Come on,” Dean implored. “If you fixed me up so easy, no way you gotta sweat the cholesterol in your own body.”

“I prefer my coffee,” Cas said, despite the fact that he hadn’t so much as touched the mug since it’d been placed in front of him. And then, about three seconds too late to sound natural. “Thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” Dean was happy enough as it was, with Cas staring warily at his plate as though he thought he might be force-fed the greasy fries and Sam poking morosely as his salad after plaintive looks at Cas had failed to yield any results for his side.

Dean crunched contentedly on a fry and licked the salt from his fingertips. Ah, victory. He should ask if they had any pie.


End file.
